Hoops for Moms My Boys and I Have Learned a Lot from Basketball

Hoops for Moms My Boys and I Have Learned a Lot from Basketball

Article excerpt

I stress manners with my sons, 5 and 7: "Don't grab," "Wait your
turn," "No shoving." We were doing OK until they joined their first
organized basketball league. But the problem wasn't the boys; it was
me.

I figured my boys would play basketball eventually. It's in their
blood thanks to their dad.

One of Joey's first baby gifts was a LeBron jersey for 0- to 3-
month-olds. My boys watch basketball, decorate their walls with
basketball posters and play NBA2K13 on Xbox. We've removed furniture
from our basement for their Little Tikes hoop: "Reverse jam!," "Fade
away!," "Buzzer beater!" When we shopped for a swing set, we left
with a basketball hoop for the driveway instead.

I've used their passion for the game to my advantage: "I bet
Dwayne Wade eats his broccoli," "Russell Westbrook probably goes to
bed without a fuss," "I've heard Chris Paul cleans his room without
being asked."

Teaching opportunities come from basketball: "How many more
points did Phoenix have?," "List all the players who start with the
letter J," "Show me on the map where the Nuggets play." I print
basketball coloring pages because the boys create posters and make
tickets for 'games'.

But I hesitated to let my boys join a team. Part of me wanted to
keep them home, keep them mine, keep them little. They are growing
up too fast. If they're old enough to play real basketball, how old
does that make me?

Plus, so many of my friends, it seemed, had surrendered their
lives to their kids' sports schedules. Sitting in a gym, on cold
hard bleachers all Saturday, every Saturday didn't sound like fun. I
complained to my husband, who was dying to sign them up.

But the boys begged. My husband begged. And eventually, like
always, I caved.

*

As the first game neared, I got nervous. The boys bragged about
the spin moves and lay ups and rebounds they planned. They practiced
celebrations for imagined success, including exaggerated fist-
pumping and finger-pointing. "No!" I scolded. "You'll do none of
that!" I lectured about sportsmanship and the importance of being
humble. "Nobody likes a show-off," I warned them.

To encourage their sensitive sides, I turned to books. I read
gentle stories to them every night: Kevin Henkes' "Kitten's First
Full Moon," Jon J. Muth's "Zen Ties," Philip C. Stead's "A Sick Day
for Amos McGee." But they kept bringing home basketball biographies
from the library. Finding Sports Illustrated for Kids in their
covers made me worry even more.

The first game arrived.

When Joey swished a beauty of a shot, he did nothing to embarrass
himself. I, however, yelled in a way-too-loud voice, "Money!" It
took everything in me not to high-five the crowd. I cheered, yelled
and went nuts the entire game. Where was Kevin Henkes when I needed
him?

After the game, I started coaching my boys. I'm not sure what
made me think I was qualified to dish out advice, but I said things
like, "You need to drive with your shoulder," "Use your elbows,"
"Don't be afraid to stuff someone. …